


all the planets we reach are dead

by ohmygodwhy



Series: little star chasers [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining Shiro (Voltron), Pre-Kerberos Mission, Sparring, an off-screen lowkey ice cream date, like mad pining man, me projecting my charles dickens hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 01:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10583994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygodwhy/pseuds/ohmygodwhy
Summary: “They’re so much closer out here,” he hears Keith say quietly, “the stars.”He has that look on his face, the one he wore when he talked about what drew him to the Garrison, drew him to the stars. It’s a breathtaking look, something faraway and so private that Shiro thinks maybe he should look away. He doesn’t, though, because he can’t. There’s so much about Keith he can’t look away from, even when others say he should.(or: there is a first time, and a last time, and a universe of time in between)





	

**Author's Note:**

> the doc title for this fic is ‘shiro’s gay pov pt 2’ and i think that’s beautiful. alternate title: i see ur pining keith and raise you,,,, a pining, sappy ass shiro
> 
> also this is sorta nonlinear-ish, so things are supposed to be kinda out of order?? im rlly tired ok

 

The last time he sees Keith is the night before takeoff, the two of them sitting close together on that rooftop where they’re never supposed to be but always are.

Well, technically, the last time he sees Keith is _during_ takeoff, climbing up into the ship and sweeping a glance over the crowd that had gathered to watch—Keith had been near the back, because of course he had, and he had waved. He had waved. 

The last time he _sees_ Keith, though, is that night before. It’s dark out, and a little chilly, the way the Arizona air gets chilly on fall nights, and Shiro has to be up in six or seven hours to get ready to leave the planet, but they linger. He lingers. 

“Bring me back a space rock or something,” Keith says, breaking the silence in that honest way of his, “or proof of alien life, if you find any.” 

“I’ll bring you back a legit alien if I can catch one,” Shiro says quietly, just to see the way the corner of Keith’s mouth quirks upward. 

(The plot twists is: Shiro was joking, but he does find proof. Just not the kind he thinks he can ever bring back.)

 

The _first_ time he sees Keith, he doesn’t really see him. He bumps into him more than he actually looks, a quick passing in the hallway, a bump of shoulders. Neither of them drop anything, nothing goes flying anywhere, so there’s none of that cliche ‘here I’ll help you with your papers’, and it doesn’t feel that important at the time. 

He knows his name by then, knows about the records he keeps beating, but doesn’t have a name to match them with, and barely catches his eye that very first time. All he sees is a headful of dark hair before he’s gone, and he forgets about it before he reaches the end of the hallway—he has a test to study for. 

The _real_ first time he sees Keith—the first time it matters—is in the simulator, watching with the rest of Keith’s classmates outside. He knows his name by then, knows his scores, the way he keeps breaking records like he was born to it, and now he has a face to match them with. And he’s good. He takes action. He makes risks and he comes out on top. 

When he walks out of the simulator, he does it with this vaguely dazed expression on his face—the way Shiro feels when he finishes a hard one, coming down from that rush of adrenaline—but with his head held straight, like he’s daring someone to do—something. Anything. Tell him he’s wrong, somehow. Maybe it’s pride, Shiro doesn’t know. 

He does know that when Keith actually meets his eye, he looks surprised for a moment, the way his classmates looked at him when he stepped in to watch. His eyes widen a little, and he swallows almost imperceptibly; he blinks, and then he’s turning away.

The real second time he sees Keith is in his room, two chairs pulled up and facing each other near the window (the library is too crowded of this type of thing, and Shiro doesn’t think Keith would appreciate someone listening in; either way, his shoulders are drawn up tight like wire, no matter how much careful nonchalance he tries to display). 

The real second time end in Keith storming out of his room. _I’m not going to apologize for finally being good at something._

He doesn’t apologize, and he _is_ good. He’s incredible. Shiro doesn’t say that lightly.

They meet in the middle, somehow. They always meet in the middle, they always come together. It’s where they understand each other.

Right after that third time on the bench, they set up a time to meet up for real after Keith’s afternoon classes. His sentences are still choppy and he still seems kind of embarrassed, but Shiro understands. He wonders how many people have given up on this boy, and if they realize how much of a mistake they made. He has unchecked potential, maybe more than either of them know. He’s gonna be something great.

“What?” Keith asks incredulously when Shiro tells him, weeks and weeks later, the two of them bent over a desk in the library. Keith has an important test coming up, probably, and he’s—not doubting himself, necessarily, but mostly kinda of doubting himself.

Shiro shrugs, suddenly a little embarrassed, “Your scores alone say it all. You’re going places, Keith.”

Keith just raises an eyebrow, skeptical, “If any of us in the whole school are going places, it’s you.”

“Isn’t that why you’re here, though?” Shiro asks, rolling his pencil between two of his fingers, “To become something better?”

“I don’t know if I _can_ become something better.” Keith says honestly, “I just wanna fly. I didn’t plan on being very good at it.”

“Wait, you’d _never_ flown before this?” Shiro asks incredulously, “The admission simulation was your first time?”

Keith shrugs, “Never had the money for flight school. Figured I’d read up on it and see where that got me.”

“But what if it didn’t get you anywhere? What if you hadn’t gotten in?”

“I would’ve tried again.” He shrugs, “I would’ve gotten better eventually.”

Shiro looks at him for a moment, Keith with his head in his hand, eyes narrowed at the book like it’s the cause of all his problems, “Yeah,” he says, almost breathless, “you’re going places.”

 

Months before Shiro gets accepted for the Kerberos mission, they get lost on their way back from the little town a few miles out from the Garrison—more of a shopping center? with shitty fast food? No one seems to really live there, so he isn’t sure how people work there?—and theyprobably have class tomorrow.No big exams, no papers due, and to be fair, it’s quickly getting dark and it’s easy to get lost on foot, so if they explain _how_ they got lost maybe their professors will give grace.

“No they won’t,” Keith snorts, “teachers live to give students detention.”

Shiro just smiles, shakes his head, opens his mouth to say something but then Keith is going “What the hell is that?” squinting his eyes and peering into the near darkness.

“What’s what?” Shiro asks, but Keith is already walking towards it—a square-ish figure, some kind of shed maybe?

It’s bigger than a shed, they find out, but smaller than the average actual house. A shack, Shiro dubs it, and Keith just rolls his eyes, goes “You’re so specific,” in that tone of his that means he’s not actually annoyed.

“You think anyone lives here?” Keith asks when they’ve already stepped inside, kicking at dust and trying to find a light switch.

“I don’t know,” Shiro responds, giving up on any possible electricity and switching his phone flashlight on instead, “if they did, they haven’t for a while now. It’s dusty as hell.”

“Maybe they’re just really lazy.”

Shiro snorts. “Maybe.”

They look around for a while, don’t find much of anything. It’s like Shiro said: if anyone ever did live here, alone, out in the middle of the desert, they left a long time ago. They end up climbing up onto the roof—Keith’s idea, because of course it is—and sprawling out under the stars.

Shiro breathes deeply, inhaling the cool night air.

“They’re so much closer out here,” he hears Keith say quietly, “the stars.”

He glances over at the boy next to him, lying with his legs crossed and arms behind his head. He has that look on his face, the one he wore when he talked about the pull that drew him to the Garrison, that drew him to the stars. It’s a breathtaking look, something faraway and so private that Shiro thinks maybe he should look away. He doesn’t, though, because he can’t. There’s so much about Keith he can’t look away from, even when others say he should.

“Yeah,” he says, makes himself look up instead of over. They _are_ closer out here, away from pollution and city air—closer than they are at the Garrison, even. They’re beautiful. “They’re beautiful.” He says.

Keith hums in agreement. “I’m going up there.” He says. Certain.

“Yeah?” Shiro asks, because he loves hearing that genuine confidence Keith wears sometimes.

“Yeah,” he says, finally glancing over at Shiro, “and you are, too.”

“I’m hoping,” Shiro says.

Keith raises an eyebrow like he did back in that library, and asks “You’re hoping, or you will?” like a challenge.

“I will,” Shiro says, smiling, “I will.”

 

Months and months before that, a few weeks after that first bench meeting, the two of them are holed up in Keith’s dorm, his roommate gone somewhere. It had taken a while to get Keith to agree to study here, and not a bench or a library or Shiro’s room—boy values his privacy. Shiro can respect that.

He’s helping him go over some homework problems, physics or something, which Keith apparently detests (“What’s the point of theoretical science if you can’t actually _see_ it happening?”), and they’re making good time. 

Keith shifts, stretching his arms out and curling his legs up underneath him to balance the book better, and Shiro sees it—a glint of something. He blinks. Keith shifts again and

“Is that…is that a _knife_ under your pillow?” Shiro asks incredulously. 

Keith freezes, moving very obviously to try and hide it, “What? Why would, no, why—why would that be there?”

Shiro is a little speechless for a moment, because. He honestly feels like he should have expected this somehow, that of course this is how it is, even though he didn’t really expect it at all. Huh.

_“Why_ is there a knife under your pillow?” he makes himself ask. 

Keith opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it, “I need it?” 

“Okay,” Shiro says slowly, “Why do you need a knife under your pillow? Or in general?”

“I don’t know,” Keith stutters, crosses his arms across his chest the way he does when he’s defensive, “If I piss someone off too bad or something, it’s just to be safe.”

“No one. No one’s gonna try to like, hurt you in the middle of the night because you made them _mad,_ Keith.”

“You know that for sure?”

Shiro opens his mouth to say yes?? of course he does??? but the look on Keith’s face makes him pause, “I mean, I’m pretty sure. It’s never happened before.”

“Never happened or never been reported?” 

Shiro’s stomach drops, “Keith, did someone—has someone here hurt you—?”

“No,” Keith cuts in quickly, “No, no one—not here, just. Lots of things go unreported all the time, y’know? Everywhere, not just here.”

Shiro thinks about every public school he’s been to, and says, “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I just—don’t think anyone’s stupid enough to try anything here.”

Keith’s face drops into a closed off scowl, and “I’m not calling _you_ stupid,” Shiro says quickly, “I’m just saying, people work hard to get into this school, I don’t think anyone would risk getting thrown out just because they’re mad, you know?” 

Keith shoulders sag where his arms are folded, “Yeah,” he says after a minute, “I guess you’re right. I just,” a pause, “I feel—safer with it near me when I sleep, I don’t know.” 

Shiro looks at him for a moment, skin and stone and fire all folded up into something that’s ready for a reprimand.

“Have you ever needed it?” he asks instead of giving him that reprimand.

Keith’s head jerks up in surprise, “What?” 

“The knife. Have you ever needed it with you?” Keith looks ready to bolt for another moment, so Shiro holds up a placating hand, “I’m just trying to understand.” 

Keith swallows, forces himself to settling back into place. “Well. Yeah. I have.” when Shiro tilts his head in encouragement, Keith bites his lip briefly and continues, “I don’t really know what you want me to say. Kids are assholes. And sometimes the parents are asshole, too. If you make one of ‘em mad enough, you’re gonna want something to protect yourself with.”

Shiro is quiet for a long moment—he’s speaking from experience, and that isn’t very reassuring.“Would they, well,” he pauses, “Were your parents ever…bad to you?”

Keith blinks at him. “I mean, I guess? Probably?”

“You _guess_?”

“I don’t know, I don’t really know the normal standard for it. Foster kid, remember?” 

“Right,” Right. Right, right. “Was it just one, or…?” he trails off, unsure of how to talk about this, unsure if he should even be _trying_ to talk about this. Keith had made his point, and Shiro doesn’t know if he’s even slightly comfortable with where this conversation is going.

“I was in more than one house, if that’s what you mean,” Keith mumbles. 

Shiro hums, not sure if it’s a dismissal or not. He’s usually good at reading people, sometimes good at reading Keith, but not right now—Keith doesn’t want to be read right now. He wonders how long it took him to perfect that. 

Slowly, hesitantly, “And there was more than one…who was, y’know, bad. To me, I guess.” 

Shiro nods slowly, takes a moment. He isn’t sure if he wants to ask the next question, but he does anyways, “Did you ever need to use the knife?” 

Keith hesitates, and then shakes his head. “No. No—I thought I might have to, but I didn’t.”

“But you almost did?” Shiro clarifies.

Keith nods. 

A moment of silence. And, because Shiro’s still supposed to be some kind of mentor, helping him Follow The Rules Right and all that, he asks, “You know how to use it?”

“Huh?”

“If you’re gonna keep it, I have to know that you’re not gonna be waving it around without knowing how to handle it.”

Keith’s eyes widen in some kind of subdued relief, “You’re not gonna report me?” he sounds so honestly surprised that Shiro might’ve been offended in different circumstances. 

“You haven’t done anything.”

“I’m pretty sure keeping a knife under your pillow isn’t exactly regulation, though?”

“Do you _want_ me to report you?” he asks with a tilt of his eyebrow.

“No,” Keith says quickly, “No, of course not, just. What do you want me to do? Like are there strings?” 

“No,” Shiro blinks, can’t help but be maybe a little hurt, “I’m not that kind of person.”

Keith seems to catch it, somehow, “I know, I know you’re a nice person and stuff,” he says quickly, “But nice people want things sometimes, too; no one’s nice for no reason.” 

Whatever hurt Shiro was feeling evaporates, replaced with a vague kind of shame, “I’m not gonna report you, Keith.” he says again, “And I don’t want anything from you, I promise.” 

Keith eyes him a little, arms folded tight; he must see something, whatever he’s looking or not looking for, because he drops his gaze and nods. 

A bell rings in the next building, barely audible through the open window. Almost time for his next class, then.

Shiro stands up, trying to ignore the way Keith sighs in relief. 

“We still on for tomorrow?” he asks, gives him the chance to back out if he wants it; Keith looks at him, the same way he looked at him when he showed up 45 minutes late to their first bench meeting.

“Yeah,” he says, “Sure.” 

Shiro gives him a smile on his way out.

(Keith does show up again this time, and the air between them feels somehow lighter than it ever did before.)

 

Closer to the last time—somewhere near the middle maybe (it feels like there’s a lifetime of moments between the first and last)—he falls asleep in Keith’s dorm, the two of them draped over the little twin bed. Keith’s roommate is gone for the weekend, probably, Shiro doesn’t know—he doesn’t know if _Keith_ knows. 

The point is, Shiro blinks awake in the early hours of a Sunday (?) morning, a horrible crick in his neck from using his arm and half a textbook as pillows, and forgets where he is for a moment before he sees Keith. And Keith isn’t _doing_ anything, he’s just _sleeping_ —he’s halfway off the bed, too, one leg hanging off the side, arms folded underneath him—but he looks so. Soft. Less than a foot away from him, breathing steadily and slowly. There’s a piece of hair hanging in his face that shakes with each breath, and Shiro reaches over and gently tucks it behind his ear before he can stop himself.

Keith stirs a little, but doesn’t wake up, just nestles deeper into his folded arms. 

Shiro lets the moment settle under his skin, rubs his tired eyes, and lets himself drift back to sleep.

 

They go back to that Desert Shack a few times after they find it, usually on the weekends when they go to town, or after hard tests or midterms, sometimes, when Keith is restless with tired adrenaline and Shiro just needs to get away for a little bit. 

They clean the place up, dust it off and scrub the windows and bug spray the corners to hell and back. They get a lock for the door. Shiro doesn’t know why this rundown little thing is so important to him, but it is. It’s theirs. They found it together, they remade it together.

“I never thought I’d invest in a house,” Keith teases one day, hair messy from the ride over. Shiro laughs, and Keith looks pleased with himself, the way he looks when he make Shiro laugh—the thought makes something inside him all warm. 

They spend late nights on that roof—actually fall asleep on it once, wake up to the relentless sun shining in their eyes. 

Shiro tells him about his grandparents on that roof, how he lives with them now, tells him about how hard he’s always trying, how much he doesn’t wanna let anyone down, how honestly isolating it is being a top student sometimes, as cliche and stuck up as it sounds. It’s hard to make _friends_ —Shiro has plenty of acquaintances, plenty of people he talks to and laughs with and enjoys being around—when people look up to you too much. There’s already an image of him there; all he has to do is try to fill it, and both parties are satisfied. 

He expects Keith to scoff at him, maybe, roll his eyes and tell him to suck it up because that’s hardly the worst thing in the world, but he doesn’t. 

He says “I get that.” and “It’s hard to be what you wanna be when people already have their own idea of what that is.” 

Keith tells him about getting into fights he never started and being passed from home to home without a thought, ending up in some pretty shitty places, tells him about how no one listens when you start yelling but no one hears you if you don’t, how every family had a different idea of what they wanted their New Kid to be, and how eventually he tried to stop fulfilling them all. 

Shiro’s woes feel…laughable in comparison honestly? But Keith just shakes his head at that. 

“There’s probably always someone who has it worse,” he says in that honest way of his that Shiro admires, “but this isn’t about them. You gotta decide how you’re gonna fix your own shit before you worry about everyone else’s, Shiro, you do enough of that already.”

Shiro huffs lightly, something that might not have been a laugh during the day, but is more than enough at night. 

“Thanks.”

 

Shiro tells Keith he got accepted for the Kerberos mission three days before it’s going to be announced to the public, up on that roof where they’re never supposed to be but always are (and when did they start meeting up on the roof? He finds Keith up there after he gets a letter saying the family he was staying with left the country. Keith finds him up there when Shiro gets a letter saying his grandma is in the hospital, too far away for him to visit without missing midterms. It’s where they understand each other.) 

“Holy shit,” Keith says, sounding kind of breathless.

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees.

“Holy _shit,_ Shiro,” he says again, “You’re going up there.” 

“Yeah,” he says again, kind of breathless himself. He’s going up there, “I really am. I just—god, it’s unbelievable. I’m gonna be one of the first men on Kerberos.”

He looks over to see Keith smiling at him—there’s something off about the way his lips curve, but he looks fond. 

“You’re gonna make history,” he says softly, and then “Say hi to the stars for me,” even softer, like it’s something he’ll never get to do. 

Shiro wants to say: you’re going up there, too, you just have to be patient. He wants to say: I’d give this to you, if I could. But he doesn’t, because that’s not what Keith wants to hear.

Instead, he smiles, “I’ll bring one back for you if I can.” 

Keith rolls his eyes, “That’ll ruin the novelty of it.” he says, like he has no idea how serious Shiro is, “Just. Don’t meet any aliens ‘till I make it up there, okay? Save me some fame.”

“I’ll leave all the scary aliens for you,” he promises. 

 

Closer to the beginning, maybe, somewhere stretch between the bench and his Kerberos acceptance, Shiro learns that Keith likes to read—book books, not the mandatory textbooks. “Bad at articulating concepts” he’d said, but that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy _reading_ the concepts. 

They’re in Keith’s room again, Keith sitting hunched over a book on his bed. Shiro is finally done with the paper he’d been working on for what feels like the last ten years of his life, so he’s Relaxing. Which for him means sprawling out on the little couch near the window until Keith is done so they can find something better to do.

He’s resorted to watching Keith flips pages until Keith flips him off and tells him to find something else to do. Shiro laughs, rolls onto his stomach, and sees a little pile of books under the desk in the corner. He might have questioned why the floor, why under the desk, a while ago, but once you learn that your friend sleeps with a knife under his pillow, you tend to stop questioning where and why he puts his things. 

Shiro rolls off the couch and pulls the pile out into the open. Keith glances up at the interested noise he make.

“Didn’t know you read,” he comments, hands hovering in a silent question. Keith shrugs in answer, and Shiro takes that as an okay.

“Honestly, I’m not sure why I brought them with me,” he says, “The couple I’m staying with is saying something about moving soon, though, so it was probably better that I did.”

“You read Dickens?” Shiro asks, looking at the cover of the bottom of the pile.

“No, I _hate_ Dickens. I had to read him for school once.”

“So why do you still have the book?”

“Out of spite.” Keith says simply, a ridiculous amount of venom in his voice, “I finished it but it was horrible. He’s so over the top with his descriptions, I hate it. Can’t risk it getting out and torturing the public when they’ve finally forgotten about him.”

Shiro laughs; he gets that—Keith prefers things direct and to the point, and Dickens is anything but.

“Ender’s Game?” is next in the pile.

“He fights aliens in space.” Like that’s all the explanation needed.

“The Little Prince?” surprises him, but Keith just hums.

“Sister Teresa liked reading to us, sometimes, but I was the only one who really listened? She gave it to me when I left, ‘cause it was my favorite.” 

He sounds so fond Shiro almost feels bad for ruining the comfortable pause, “The _Official Guide_ To The _X-Files?_ ”

“Shut up,” Keith sputters, “I got it at a garage sale. At least I don’t have a poster up in my room.”

Shiro just smiles.

“Crime and Punishment?”

He _hears_ Keith shrug, somehow, “I had a lit. teacher who was huge on the classics, even more than the actual curriculum. Had us annotate to hell and back, too.”

Sure enough, as Shiro flips through the pages of the paperback, Keith’s semi-messy handwriting is scrawled all over the margins, underlining and starring and circling.

“It’s a good habit to get into,” Shiro says absently, running a finger down one of the pages; it’s not an old book, necessarily, but it’s well used. Homey.

“Takes a lot longer,” Keith counters, flipping another textbook page, “it does help with studying, though,” Shiro hums in agreement.

“Hey, can I borrow this?” Shiro asks. Keith glances up at him, flicks his eyes between Shiro and the book.

“ _You’ve_ never read it?”

“I’ve read parts of it, after we came to the US, but never the whole thing. I’ve heard it’s really good.”

Keith seems to hesitate before giving a slight nod, eyes dropping back to his open book, “I’m not really a literary expert, but I thought it was good. There’s a lot about like, worldviews and stuff that’s kinda hard to understand. Made me kinda anxious too, makes it feel like you’re the one going crazy.”

“God knows I feel like that enough already,” Shiro teases, and Keith’s mouth tilts into a small smile.

“Sure, you can borrow it. Just don’t lose it or anything, I don’t have shit to buy a new one.”

“I’m a top student, I don’t lose things.” 

It _is_ a well-written book, enough that Shiro’s surprised he’s never read it himself, but hey, the Garrison doesn’t exactly have a Classic Literature class—you don’t need to have a working knowledge of the classics to go to space.

It’s a good book, but maybe it wouldn’t have been as good without Keith’s messy commentary to keep him company. It definitely makes it a lot more entertaining—he’s scrawled _‘shut up’_ at least ten times by now and seems to hate one of the characters with a passion—but it’s also. Nice. It feels like he’s having a conversation, like Keith is helping shape his opinions and feelings about it as he goes.

_'he’s up to…smth for sure’_ is written at the top of the third page, and _'_ _ohhhhhh no_ _’_ a while later. _'losing grasp on reality bc he thinks he’s losing grasp on reality, what kinda irony_ ’ is bunched sideways in a margin.

The letters get bigger and messier when something big is happening, there are lots of exclamation points, questions marks when the worldview discussions come up—quite a few times, which is actually a little much for Shiro, even if it is interesting. When one of the characters breaks a glass table, Keith writes a small _‘damn…me too’_ that has Shiro honest to god giggling? His friend Matt laughs himself half to death because of it.

He writes _'what a dick_ ’ at least five times in Part 2 alone, he squeezes long comments into two inch spaces that Shiro has to twist the book around to make out, he underlines _'He died in her arms_.’ five times, and there are no other comments on that page.

The writing gets thinner and thinner until it switches colors altogether, like the pen had run out of ink from being used so much. It makes Shiro smile.

“Not that I’ve read it,” he hears Matt say later, the two of them lounging in the library, “but I don’t think that’s the kind of book you give a soft, fond smile to.”

Shiro flushes, covers it up with a laugh, “I’m not smiling at the book.”

“Hm,” he can picture the calculating tilt of his eyebrow without actually having to look, “alright, then. Carry on.”

 

“So explain this to me again,” Keith says, weeks later, after Shiro’s borrowed all the books except the single, hated Dickens, a box of shitty Garrison takeout in his lap, “Your birthday is in two days, but it doesn’t exist?” 

Shiro laughs around the spoon in his mouth, “Kind of?” he says, and swallows when Keith makes a face at him, “It’s on the 29th, but that’s the leap year day.”

“The one that only comes once every twenty years, right?”

“Every four, but yeah,” Shiro nods, “So I just celebrate it on the 28th instead.”

“Huh,” Keith says, and shakes his head, “How are you born on a day that doesn’t exist?”

Shiro shrugs, deciding to forgo the shit rice altogether, “Either I’m lucky or very unlucky. I guess the universe just wants me to stay young forever.”

Keith smiles softly, like he still doesn’t quite understand it yet, but that’s fine—he always gets it eventually; Shiro isn’t gonna be an asshole about it. 

“So you’re celebrating it tomorrow?” he asks, and Shiro nods.

“Yeah, I’m gonna take the weekend off, probably go visit my grandparents for a family thing.” 

Keith takes another bite of the garbage someone decided to call food, and seems to consider. 

“I don’t really have any money for a present or anything, but I definitely have money for some better food,” he says, seeming to finally give in and drop the plastic fork, “We could go to town or something. You up for ice cream for dinner?”

He says it so seriously that Shiro can’t help but smile. “You have classes tomorrow.” 

“Yeah, and you don’t. It’s your—well, it’s not gonna be your _actual_ birthday for another year or so, but it’s around the time you were born?”

“I thought you said you didn’t believe in celebrating birthdays,” Shiro teases—he had been shocked, hurt and offended to find out that Keith’s birthday had come and passed without him knowing, and Keith had just crossed his arms and went _it’s just another day, I don’t see what the big deal is,_ until Shiro had dragged him to town. 

Keith maybe flushes, but tries to frown it off, “This is different—your birthday literally is _not_ ‘just another day’. It’s like. A legend. A cryptid.”

Shiro laughs, feels something warm settle inside him when Keith laughs too, lets the sound make itself known in his mind, “Damn, alright, you got me there. Ice cream for dinner sounds great.”

 

He isn’t sure how far along they are, whether this is closer to the first or closer to the last, because it’s something they do so soften—every Friday since the one that stuck with him, the one he thinks about when he’s flying tough simulations—that it’s become a part of his routine. Friday nights are for the gym and for training and for Keith.

There’s something different in the air today—he knows Keith crashed the sim earlier today, got cursed out by Iverson for not paying attention to the set course and going his own way, like he does. Quietly, Shiro thinks they should know by now that Keith does his best flying when he’s unrestrained. It’s how he’s made his highest scores. 

Shiro knows it’s mostly just for show, the way they tell him off—they’re not going to bump down one of their most promising students for going the wrong way a few times. He’s pretty sure most of his classmates know it, too, but he doesn’t know if Keith knows it. 

Either way, Keith is more restless than usual tonight, and his head is somewhere else. Watching Keith fight when his head is clear and his focus is unwavering is breathtaking, but Shiro has seen him like this, before, too, and it’s alright. _Moving_ , _doing_ something is usually enough to help take the edge off, eventually—Keith is, first and foremost, a creature of action, and that will never change.

Shiro puts him on his back for maybe the fourth time since they’ve started, both of them breathless but Shiro a little less so—when Keith is distracted his moves become predictable, and going too easy on his isn’t going to help anything, so he’s being knocked around a little more than he’s probably gotten used to.

“Shit,” Keith curses when he falls, landing hard on his elbows. “Fuck,” he huffs and hits the ground with his fist in frustration, and then has to sit up to cradle his hand.

“Patience yields focus, you know,” Shiro says, grabbing his water bottle and dropping down next to him. He takes a drink and holds it out as a peace offering.

Keith glares at him for a second, and then at the water bottle, catching his breath, but eventually sighs and takes it with the hand he didn’t hit the ground with.

“And what the hell does focus yield?” he grumbles, taking a drink and not bothering to wipe away the water the drips down his chin. 

Shiro does it for him, and shrugs, “Success? If you’re too impatient, your opponent can see right through you. If you lose focus, you can lose everything.” 

Keith frowns, “Patience yields focus and focus yields _success_ , huh?” with a skeptical quirk of his eyebrow.

“Pretty much,” Shiro smiles, running a head through sweaty hair. 

Keith hums noncommittally, still glaring at the water bottle. Shiro takes a moment or two to catch his breath, lets Keith glare until his glare softens into thoughtfulness. Eventually, he nods.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, “I can do that.” 

He takes another swig of the water and stands up, shaking out his arms, and gives him an unrestrained smile.

“Let’s go again.” 

Shiro grins right back.

 

The last time he sees Keith is the night before takeoff, the two of them sitting close together on that rooftop where they’re never supposed to be but always are. It’s dark out, and chilly, and he has to get up soon, but neither of them want to leave quite yet. 

They’re sitting close enough that he can feels Keith breathing, his chest rising and falling steadily. Unconsciously, he matches the rhythm, breath for breath. 

“Are you scared?” Keith asks softly, no challenge in his voice, just a soft curiosity. 

“Not really,” Shiro says automatically, and then “Kind of. Yeah.” when he feel Keith raise an eyebrow at him. He always knows what to say without saying it, even if he’s horrible at picking it up when others try it. 

“Why?” Keith asks. 

“Wouldn’t you be?” Shiro asks instead of answering. Would he be? Keith acts fearless but Shiro knows he fears things—so would he fear this? They’ve both dreamed of going to the stars for so long, so why is Shiro afraid?

“I mean, I guess,” Keith is saying, “First thing they teach us is that something can always go wrong, but that’s kinda true with anything, isn’t it? Something could go wrong while you’re getting dressed. Nothing’s ever gonna go perfectly.” 

“But it could go wrong,” Shiro admits, and then he can’t stop admitting, “Something could go wrong, completely, _horribly_ wrong, and it would be my fault—the second thing they teach us is that real ships are nothing like the simulator.” 

“But you’ve flown both, I’ve watched you, and you’re probably better with the ship.” 

“You think so?” Shiro asks.

“I don’t think so,” Keith says, looks him in the eye, “I know it. You’ll be fine, Shiro. Anything goes wrong and you’ll fix it.” 

“But what if I can’t?”

“Then you can’t. You don’t have to know how to do _everything_ , Shiro,” he says.

Shiro smiles softly, taking a breath and bringing himself back together, “Yeah, I know. I just worry.”

“Yeah, I know,” Keith says, the tilt of his smile something Shiro wishes he could see forever, “But you’ll be fine. You’re making history tomorrow.” 

“Yeah,” Shiro laughs in disbelief, “I guess I am.” 

“Wait for me to get up there before you start discovering new planets, alright?” 

“I have a better idea,” Shiro says, tilting his head down like this he’s telling a secret no one else can know; Keith blinks, leans in the same way, “I’ll come back, I won’t bring you anything—no aliens or stars, because I’m saving all the best things for you to find—and we can go back up and discover them together, how does that sound?” 

The honest smile Keith gives him catches him off guard, every single time. 

“Sounds like a plan.” 

 

(The plot twist is: Shiro wasn’t joking this time, and neither was Keith, but things go wrong and he can’t fix it. He doesn't think he can ever fix it, the way he thinks he should’ve told Keith how much he meant to him, the way he thinks he won’t ever get to. 

It feels like there’s a universe of time stretched between the first and last time he sees Keith, a million moments he doesn’t want to forget. 

He forgets a lot.) 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ........yes those were my crime  & punishment annotations lmao i like pushing my literary preferences onto my favs ok???
> 
> w/ every comment a puppy is born and im one problem closer to passing my math test tomorrow pl s


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